Harry quietly climbs through the portrait hole. If he’s lucky, nobody will notice him and he can sneak up to the dormitory. It’s not that he’s avoiding his friends, exactly—but Ron and Hermione will want to talk about the gun.  And Harry just doesn’t want to hash it out again. Not after the day he’s had. Not with his nice warm bed just around the corner…

But all ideas of sleep fly out of Harry’s head once he spots his friends. They aren’t hard to miss, as they are the only ones still left in the Common Room. Ron’s head is bowed and Hermione is slumped next to him, her usually flashing eyes dull. They both look shell-shocked. A great rush of affection goes through Harry, and he sits down across from them.

“Hey,” Ron says. There is no rebuke in his voice, nothing at all, in fact, except gentleness, and something about his expression allows Harry to relax. Okay. He can have this conversation again. At least they won’t hit him, right?

Harry waves a hand at them. “Something you two need to say?”

“Are you alright?” Ron asks, clearly concerned. “What happened after we left? Snape looked furious.”

“He asked me about the gun.”

“What did he want to know?”

“Oh…just details. The sorts of things an adult should ask, I suppose.”

“That was an awful memory,” Hermione declares, abruptly joining the conversation. “And I think you’ve plenty more like it, Harry.”

“I might,” Harry hedges, flushing a bit.

“Why didn’t you ever tell us it was that horrible?” Hermione demands. She sounds mad, and Harry braces himself. Anger seems to be an inevitable response to him.

“I tried to tell teachers a couple of times,” Harry says slowly. “They never did anything. I was a dirty little thing, Hermione. I didn’t inspire big gestures.”

“With Muggles,” Ron corrects. “But not with wizards. We wouldn’t have let you rot there. Not us, Harry!”

“Dumbledore’s a wizard,” Harry points out.

Hermione looks between the two boys. “Harry,” she says again. “Please answer me. Why didn’t you tell us about the Dursleys?”

“I told you two more than anyone else,” Harry says stubbornly. “You know they didn’t feed me. You know about the bars on the windows. You know a lot.”

“You left out a fair bit!” Hermione snaps. “You left out a LOT, Harry!”

“I don’t know even your parents’ first names!”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Harry crosses his arms, not sure why he’s feeling so defensive. “Maybe you’re hiding something too. How come you spend so much time at the Weasleys? Something you aren’t telling us about the dentists?”

“Are you serious?” Ron asks incredulously. “Really, Harry!”

“Harry’s right,” Hermione says swiftly. “I don’t talk much about my family. What would you like to know?” She looks pointedly at him. “I’d be happy to tell you.”

Harry shrugs. He should have just snuck upstairs. “I don’t know. Nothing. That’s my point. You can keep your secrets if you like. I won’t trick them out of you.”

“I’m doing no such thing,” Hermione says curtly. “But come on, Harry. You’ve been keeping a lot from us. And I don’t talk about my parents because I don’t want you to feel left out, alright?”

“You must think I’m really fragile if you think I can’t handle the dentists, Hermione.”

“I’ve seen how you look at the Weasleys. I know you’d give anything to be part of it. I just didn’t want to rub it in!”

“That’s not what I’ve been doing,” Ron says, offended. “Harry, is that what I’ve been doing? Rubbing your face in my family?”

“No,” Harry says firmly. “Hermione’s got it wrong. You know I love everyone at the Burrow.” He hesitates, thinking about what Snape said to him earlier. “But you’re right about something else, Hermione. I haven’t confided in you as much as I could have.”

“Yes,” Hermione says hotly. “Why not?”

“It’s not the easiest thing in the world to talk about,” Harry says tersely. “I don’t enjoy keeping things from you. It’s just—hard. I was embarrassed. I’d rather forget about the Dursleys.”

Hermione looks at him shrewdly. “That’s the only reason you didn’t tell us? You were embarrassed?”

“They don’t matter enough to talk about,” Harry snaps. “They are insignificant, okay? They aren’t my family.” Harry scowls, looking at his shoes. “They were never my family. Not once. Not ever.”

Ron looked surprised by his outburst. “Alright, Harry.”

“You two are my family,” Harry adds, needing to point that out.

Hermione sucks in her breath, looking touched. Then she says quietly, “If you had told us about the Dursleys—and I mean the full story, Harry, not these little details you toss out and then never mention again, then maybe—maybe we could have done something about it.”

“Nobody ever listened to me,” Harry says shortly. “Do you really think they would have listened to my little friends?”

“Well, I suppose we’ll never know, will we?” Hermione says, looking upset.

“What’s done is done,” Ron says grimly. “What I want to know is what you plan on doing about it now. You’ve still got to go back there this summer and the next.”

“They aren’t an issue anymore,” Harry says carefully, his heart clenching in his chest. “I can make myself scarce around Privet Drive. That was a skill I lacked at seven.”

“And is food still an issue?” Hermione asks, the edge creeping back into her voice. “Can we stop sending you emergency packages?”

Harry scowls. “If you like.”

Hermione glares right back at him. “And the gun? Is the gun still an issue, Harry?”

“No,” Harry snarls. “It’s been in the drawer since I turned 11, okay? That’s what I told Snape and that’s what I’m telling you.”

“I knew it,” Ron murmurs.

Hermione ignores him. “Harry? Do you they still hit you?”

Harry’s breath catches in his throat. He picks at a sofa cushion until a wad of stuffing comes out. The silence drags on and on until finally Harry reluctantly breaks it. “No. No, they don’t hit me anymore.”

“No?” Hermione says, sounding skeptical.

“No,” Harry repeats, a pink blush creeping up his neck. “I’m too quick for them now.”

“So would you say your conditions have changed from intolerable to acceptable?”

“Yes, Counselor,” Harry growls. “Conditions are adequate. Can we move on?”

“I’m so pleased you are willing to settle for adequate,” Hermione says coldly. “Let me know when you want to aim a little higher.”

Harry can’t help but flinch at her words. He cannot think of a single thing to say in return.

“Shut up!” Ron says loudly. “Why don’t you just shut up, Hermione!”

The tone is so unlike him that Harry and Hermione both freeze. “Don’t talk to Harry like that!” Ron continues, his face as red as his hair. “What were you doing at seven, Hermione? You were cuddled between the dentists, a teddy in one hand and a book in the other, weren’t you?”

Hermione just stares at him. Ron gestures jerkily at her, obviously expecting an answer. Finally Hermione nods.

“That’s what I thought,” Ron growls. “You know where I was? I was running around the strawberry patch wrestling with gnomes. I didn’t have a care in the world. Did you? Huh? Did you have a care in the world, Hermione?”

Hermione shakes her head.

“Then you just leave Harry alone,” Ron says fiercely. “Who are we to judge him?”

Hermione gulps and looks away. Harry hopes that is the end of it, but Hermione is not so easily quenched. She rummages around her bag and pulls something out of it. “Harry,” she says, a placating wobble in her voice, “Ron and I both found messages on our pillows when we came back. Would you like to read them?”

Harry doesn’t want to, but he nods anyway to keep the peace. He unfolds the first piece of parchment, instantly recognizing the spidery handwriting:

Hermione, please tell Harry to come to my office upon receipt of this message. He knows the password. AD

Ron wordlessly hands over the second parchment:

Tell him to come alone.

“Excellent,” Harry murmurs. “That’s just what I want to do. See Dumbledore.”

“Will you go?” Hermione asks. “You can’t avoid him forever, Harry.”

Harry scowls. He balls up the notes and hurls them onto the fire. The three of them watch the papers burn, Hermione with an uneasy expression on her face.

After that, there doesn’t seem to be anything left to say. Harry takes his leave of the others and at long last goes to the dormitory. But his rest is fretful. In his dreams, Dumbledore keeps trying to give him a gun, over and over again. He’s done with sleep before the sun has risen.

***

Halfway through a large dish of pre-dawn scrambled eggs, a shadow falls across Harry’s plate. He looks up, rather surprised to see Snape. Harry glances, before he can stop himself, at the man’s hands. No ring.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape says in a neutral sort of voice. He glances around him as he speaks, but the Great Hall is empty at this ungodly hour.

“What do you want?”

Snape smirks at the unfriendly greeting and thrusts a piece of parchment at him.

Harry sets fire to the note without reading it.

Snape raises an eyebrow. “Too busy to read your fan mail?”

Harry sighs. “Did you read it?”

“It was not addressed to me.”

“But did you read it?”

“I delivered it, did I not?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “But did you read it?”

“No.”

Harry squashes some scrambled eggs with his fork. “He wants to see me, you know.”

“So I gathered. I do so enjoy, by the way, acting as your personal owl.” Snape uneasily glances around him again. Then with a graceful slither, he sits across from Harry. At the Gryffindor table. Voluntarily.

Harry narrows his eyes. What an odd turn of events. “Why do you think Dumbledore wants to see me?”

“I imagine he wants to tell you about the rest of the prophecy,” Snape replies. He looks distastefully at the Gryffindor banner hanging above him, and waves his wand. The lion in the fabric closes his eyes.

“I don’t want to know what it says.”

“You are not curious? Minerva says you are always curious.”

“Dumbledore’s going to tell me I have to murder Voldemort, isn’t he?”

Snape looks startled. “Well, yes, probably.” He pours himself a cup of coffee, looking as though he requires fortification.

“It just makes no sense,” Harry says plaintively. “Surely Dumbledore can kill him. Why does it have to be me?”

“You managed more than the rest of us put together as a baby, Potter.”

“So?” Harry demands. “That means I have to do it again?”

“This is why you are avoiding the headmaster? You wish to avoid his assignment?”

“He isn’t assigning me an essay, Snape! He wants me to murder someone.”

“He wants you to kill the man who murdered your parents and who tried to kill you.”

“You sound like you want me to kill him,” Harry grumbles.

“It would certainly be a load off my mind.”

“Why are you making light of this?”

Snape smirks into his coffee. “Things must be as they may.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Merely that some things are inevitable. If it is your fate to kill the Dark Lord, then so be it. Avoiding the headmaster will not change that.”

Harry pulls a plate of sausages towards his end of the table. He spears one savagely with his fork, and watched the juices dribble out the middle. “That’s right. I forgot. You believe in fate because you think your thestral wand is unlucky. Load of rubbish if you ask me.”

Snape raises an eyebrow. “I do not recall asking you.”

“Why would I want my life to have been destined?” Harry continues. “I’d rather it was a big cosmic joke than some sort of master plan. A plan means someone is out to get me.”

“That’s a bit melodramatic,” Snape murmurs.

Harry scowls. “I’d rather believe in free will.” He glares at Snape. “Only an idiot would believe in Divination.”

“Are you calling me an idiot?”

“You are if you believe in that stuff,” Harry mutters.

Snape stirs his cup of coffee. “Duly noted.”

Harry takes a swig of pumpkin juice. This is weird. Snape is acting far too civil. “So you do believe in it? You think the prophecy has to be fulfilled?”

“I know a true prophecy when I see one,” Snape replies. “Or do you think I would have run off to the Dark Lord with anything less than utter certainty?”

Harry spears another sausage. “So you want the prophecy to be true. That’s interesting.”

“What do you mean?”

“If the prophecy is true, you’re off the hook,” Harry says. “Well, not off the hook. But it might make it easier for you to sleep at night, if you thought that at least you gave Voldemort something valid.”

Snape puts down his mug too hard and coffee sloshes onto the table. “You assume too much.”

“I’m not assuming anything. I’m just saying, you know, that if this prophecy is nonsense, then it makes what you did even more foolish—”

“Be quiet,” Snape snaps. He takes a deep breath and Vanishes the excess coffee with deliberate, slow spell work. Then he says, more calmly, “You really ought to desist, Potter.”

Harry does not want to desist. He made that mistake last night, when he should have answered Snape’s blow in kind. Instead he’d jumped and startled and trembled like a two-day-old deer.

“I’d rather it were up to me whether I kill Voldemort,” Harry says curtly. “It’s not up to the damn stars. If you think that you are a fool. That’s all.”

“Have you forgotten that I am your professor?” Snape inquires. “You owe me at least the appearance of respect. You should not call me names.”

“So you think it was clever of you to go running off to Voldemort? With a stupid prophecy that can’t possibly be true? And you say Gryffindors are reckless!”

Snape, to Harry’s immense satisfaction, finally begins to look agitated. “Careful, Potter.”

“We never really discussed this,” Harry says, latching onto the man’s anger, letting it fuel his own. He wants Snape to get mad. He wants to redeem himself for last night’s humiliation. Just let Snape try slapping him again. “I punched you in the nose after you told me about the prophecy and walked out, remember? Did you think that was the end of it?”

“There is no end to this,” Snape hisses. “I have been living like a man waiting for the noose, Potter! Every morning when I wake up, I wonder—will this be the day? Will this be the day her child seeks me out for vengeance? Will this be the day my house of cards collapses?”

“You’re playing the victim,” Harry accuses, planting his hands on either side of his plate and leaning forward. “You brought this on yourself. Nobody forced you to tell Voldemort the prophecy. Nobody forced you to become a Death Eater. Nobody was holding a gun to your head!”

“No, that was you,” Snape says viciously. “You wish to talk about victimhood, Potter? Nobody forced you to show us that particular memory. Poor little suffering Harry! He’s blameless, of course! Always blameless!”

“It’s easy to be blameless when you never do anything,” Harry mutters.

“What do you mean?” Snape demands.

“All I ever do is sit there and take it,” Harry says bitterly. “With my uncle. Last night with you. Even with my friends sometimes.” He looks up at Snape. “Maybe if I fought back a little harder I wouldn’t be so blameless, eh?”

Snape gives Harry a strange look. “You think you don’t fight back? You, the child who regularly bests Voldemort?”

Harry shrugs.

“And you think my actions are comparable to your uncle’s?”

“He’s not blameless. Neither are you.”

Snape clutches his cup of coffee so hard that his knuckles begin to turn white. “And so the hangman prepares his noose.”

“I have every right to judge you,” Harry snaps. “As Lily’s child, I have that right!”

“Do you know what I see when I look at you?” Snape asks, his voice shaking. “I see the remains of what I blew up in that house. I see bits and pieces—all that was left of them, I’m sure—flying up in the air and landing on to you.” Snape leans forward, pointing at different parts of Harry, who flinches away, repulsed. “Here—your mother’s eyes. And there—there’s your father’s chin.” He stops at Harry’s scar. “And there—there’s your scar. But that one’s just your own, isn’t it?”

“Stop it,” Harry says hoarsely.

“I sent your parents to their Judgment Day,” Snape says, a dark glint in his eye. “And they left you to bring me to mine. Do you not see? You might as well be a ghost, for all you haunt me!”

“Shut up! Why don’t you just shut up, Snape!”

Snape stiffens, and then, strangely, relaxes. He takes a deep breath, the wildness leaving his expression. “And this is what happens I actually try to keep my temper. Very encouraging.”

“Go away,” Harry says miserably. “You aren’t wanted.”

Snape frowns. “Can’t you at least act like you respect me?”

“Why should I?”

“I don’t know,” Snape sighs. “I only meant that—oh, Merlin knows. Don’t you have a lesson to go to?”

“Don’t you have a lesson to teach?”

The two of them consider each other. Snape groans and pours himself another cup of coffee. “I do not think we are morning people, Potter.”

“You talk about me like I’m some kind of Frankenstein. Why did you say that?”

Snape winces. “I should not have done so.”

Harry scowls.

“You are no monster,” Snape says softly, a strange pleading look in his eyes. “You must know that.” He clears his throat. “I do not even know how we landed at this juncture. What on earth were we talking about?”

“The prophecy,” Harry says witheringly. “Touchy subject.”

“Apparently.”

“I don’t want the stupid thing to be true,” Harry mumbles.

“I am getting that distinct impression.”

“I don’t want to kill him,” Harry whispers, finally admitting it. “And Voldemort’s going to destroy me before I even get out my wand.”

“Perhaps,” Snape says. “But perhaps not.”

“Since when are you such an optimist?”

“Do you really think I would waste my time protecting you if I did not think you were on the winning side?”

“Yes.”

“Then you are mistaken.”

“You’d protect me, no matter what, because of Mum,” Harry snaps, suddenly angry again. “I don’t think you even care about the war.”

“I care,” Snape says in his deep voice. “Only children do not care about their leaders, Potter.”

“So you say,” Harry replies. “But I think that if Lily were still alive, and willing, then you’d have no interest in war. You’d be interested in…other things.” He glares at Snape. “Other parts of my mum, I expect.”

Two spots of color suffuse Snape’s cheeks, and Harry wonders if he has finally gone too far. He braces himself for the inevitable explosion. But to his surprise, Snape visibly relaxes once more, and begins to sip at his coffee. “Why are you so insolent today, Potter?”

“I’m not,” Harry bristles. “I’m just being honest.”

“You lie,” Snape murmurs. “You have been trying to pick a fight and now I understand why.”

“Merlin, you really are paranoid.”

“You are testing me,” Snape pronounces. “You want to see if I will keep my promise from last night. Very adolescent of you.”

Harry turns his attention to his dish of cold, mangled sausages. They look disgusting, but he eats one anyway. “If I really wanted to provoke you, Snape, I think I’d know about it.”

“I’m not going to hit you again,” Snape continues. “No matter what you do. No matter what you tell me or how much you frighten me. Would you like me to swear on something? I will, you know.”

“What’s left for you to swear on?” Harry demands. “My mother’s life? Oh, wait…” He looks pointedly at Snape.

Snape, to Harry’s annoyance, does not take the bait. He merely looks back at Harry.

“I don’t care if you hit me,” Harry huffs, trying to recover his bravado. “I punched you in the Room.”

“So you keep reminding me,” Snape says calmly. “I wonder why you keep pointing that out? Something to do with your pride, perhaps?”

Harry scowls, breaking eye contact.

“I wasn’t much older than you when I first killed someone,” Snape says, mercifully changing the subject. “If I can do it, you can. But perhaps we are getting ahead of ourselves. Visit the headmaster. See what he says about the prophecy. Then come and report to me.”

“Don’t give me marching orders,” Harry snaps. “I’ll come to you if I feel like it.”

Snape takes a roll from the table and butters it. He sounds almost amused when he says, “Certainly, Potter.”

“Why are you laughing at me?” Harry demands, feeling oddly put out.

“Would you rather I give you detention?” Snape says mildly.

“I’d rather you stop acting like I’m some moody teenager you’re indulging!”

“Very well,” Snape says, now definitely sounding amused. “Detention at eight tonight.” He smirks. “Don’t be late.”

Harry opens and closes his mouth. For once, he is at a loss for words. Then he slumps into his chair. Of all the idiots who roam the earth, he is certainly the biggest.

“So,” Snape says, clearing his throat, “do you wish for me to accompany you to the headmaster’s office?”

Harry sighs. Why is Snape being nice to him? Probably he still feels guilty about last night. “That’s okay. Do you, um, think Dumbledore will try something?”

Snape pulls something out of his pocket and shows it to Harry. “Take this with you, and the headmaster will not be able to ‘try’ anything.”

“What is it?” Harry asks curiously. Snape has given him a shiny black stone with a rough crater in the center.

“If he gives you any trouble, press your thumb into the indentation, say Auxilio Volnerum, and throw the stone at him.”

“What will that do?”

Snape smirks. “You’ll see.”

***

Harry steps off the moving staircase a few minutes later. He still can’t believe he’s willingly going into this man’s office. What must he be thinking?

Well. Maybe McGonagall was right. He’s curious.

Dumbledore is sitting in an armchair by the fire. He’s got a photograph in his hand, and is gazing at it with such intensity that Harry is embarrassed. He’s never known Dumbledore to look so transfixed by something. He clears his throat, and Dumbledore looks up sharply. His face relaxes when he sees who it is. “Harry. Please, join me.”

Dumbledore slips the photograph into his robes, and Harry, after a moment’s hesitation, joins him in the other chair by the fire. It’s oddly cozy with the flames cackling, and Fawkes snoozing in the corner. A pang goes through Harry. It’s like he’s with his grandfather, swapping stories after a lazy meal. That’s how it would look. To an outsider.

Dumbledore looks tired. He sips his tea and considers Harry. “Will you ever forgive me?”

Harry squints at the wizard. That was not the opening he was expecting. “Forgive you? For the Room?”

“Among other things, I am sure. You know, at our last meeting, I did not make use of the opportunity to apologize for what I must have put you through.”

Harry looks suspiciously at Dumbledore, while racking his own memory of that confrontation. He remembers Snape cursing Fawkes…and Dumbledore taking the Unbreakable Vow…and telling Snape about the memory inside the Pensieve. But…no, he doesn’t remember an apology. Nobody ever apologizes. What would be the point?

“You want to apologize to me,” Harry repeats flatly.

“Yes,” Dumbledore says. “Whatever my reasons, my methods were harsh. I do not know what I would have done, if someone had imprisoned me when I was fifteen. I doubt the results would have been pleasant. I do apologize for that.”

“Doesn’t Snape deserve an apology too?”

Dumbledore smiles. “You see, Harry? That is why I cannot wholly regret my actions. You never would have asked that before.”

Harry ignores this. “Answer the question.”

Dumbledore looks steadily at Harry. “Of course he will get an apology.”

“But I get one first,” Harry mutters. Sometimes Snape’s jealousy does not seem so misplaced. “You’re just being nice because you want something from me. You want me to kill Voldemort for you, right?” He tries to look taller, straightening in his chair. “That’s what the prophecy says, isn’t it?”

Dumbledore takes off his spectacles and polishes them. He looks like a mole without his glasses, his eyes squinting as though unused to the light. “You’ve figured that out? Very clever of you.”

Harry’s heart sinks. “So I’m right? That’s what the prophecy says? I’ve got to kill him?”

“It says one of you must kill the other.” Dumbledore twirls his wand, and the smoky face of Sybill Trelawney wafts out of it. She opens her mouth and issues her prophecy about the one with the power to defeat the Dark Lord. Her wavering voice echoes weirdly in the chamber, and Harry shivers. When she is done, Dumbledore waves her back into oblivion. And that’s that.

Dumbledore looks steadily at Harry. “Are you very angry with me?”

“Do you believe in prophecies?”

“As much as any man can believe the words of another.” Dumbledore says soberly. “You recall Professor Trelawney’s words about the servant rejoining his master? That prophecy came true. This one was given in much the same vein.”

“Divination is a load of crap,” Harry says, heart pounding. “Including this prophecy. I don’t care what Snape says, there’s no such thing as a real one.”

“Don’t let Sybill hear you say that,” Dumbledore says lightly. “But it happens I rather agree with you. Do not set too much store by prophecies, Harry. I tell you simply to arm you.”

“So that’s it?” Harry says, rattled. “Do you want me to kill him or not? I can’t tell.”

“I think not,” Dumbledore says calmly. “At least, not until some other matters have been resolved.” He peers over his glasses at Harry. “Let me resolve them, and then we will have this discussion again.”

“I don’t understand,” Harry protests. “You said you put me in the Room for a bunch of reasons, two birds and all that, but…I don’t know. I thought you put me in there to help prepare me for the war. You know, to make a warrior out of me. That’s what the password said. A place for warriors.” He stares at Dumbledore. “I’m not a warrior yet.”

“I did not put you in the Room to create something,” Dumbledore says quietly, “but to mend something.”

“Yes,” Harry says impatiently, “you didn’t want me to kill Snape. I got it. Into the Room we went. And now you don’t want me to kill Voldemort, either.” He feels his anger getting the best of him. “Is there anybody you do want me to kill? I’d rather gotten used to the idea!”

“I don’t want you to kill anyone,” Dumbledore says, a little edge to his voice. “Do you truly think I would willingly choose this fate for you? Have you misconstrued my wishes so badly?”

“How am I supposed to know what you want for me?” Harry demands. “How am I supposed to know what you want from me? You never tell me anything!”

“I have an idea,” Dumbledore announces. “Let us revisit the events of the Room. I am not under the constraints of the Unbreakable Vow now. I can speak much more freely.”

“You mean you can lie.”

“It is very difficult to speak of things that are not black and white when under such magic. Would you like me to tell you something, Harry? Let me tell you the gray.”

Harry swallows. Then, against his better judgment, he slowly nods. “Okay.” He reaches into his pocket and runs his fingers over the stone.

“Start at the beginning,” Dumbledore prompts. “Tell me what happened when you entered the Room.”

“It was empty,” Harry says haltingly. He swallows, clenching his fingers around the stone. He can do this. “Then Snape came in. We couldn’t get our magic to work, but for some reason I got mine sorted out. Snape got really frustrated and threw a book at me.” Harry frowns. “I think he broke my nose. But it was an accident. He didn’t mean to hit me that time.”

“Professor Snape does have quite the temper. But I’m sure that came as no surprise to you.”

“I’d say Snape got the first surprise,” Harry says, determined now to get the details right. He’ll show Dumbledore. He’s not afraid. “Snape saw my dinosaur memory and found out how the Dursleys treated me.” Harry pauses, and pointedly repeats, “That’s when he found out about what the Dursleys. I don’t know if the dinosaur came as a surprise to anyone else.”

Their eyes meet. For once, Dumbledore’s expression is open.

Oh.

No…no, the dinosaur wasn’t a surprise.

Harry glares at Dumbledore, hoping that Snape is right. He hopes his mother’s eyes are looking out from his patchwork face, damning Dumbledore to hell and back. For what he did to her child. For what he chose not to do.

Dumbledore looks away.

Harry leans back in his chair, trying to find solace in this tiny victory. He can find none, so instead he begins to talk. This is what he does with Dumbledore. He fills in the silences. “The dinosaur rattled Professor Snape and we got into a fight. He dared me to use my magic on him. I thought about it and told the Room to give him what he deserved.”

“Most men do not get what they deserve,” Dumbledore says very quietly. Then he clears his throat, and in a much different voice, adds “You chose to make him suffer. That experience shook Professor Snape badly.”

“I know what I did,” Harry says fiercely. “I’m not trying to deny that I hurt him.”

Dumbledore’s gaze flickers for a moment. His hand strays to his pockets, as though he wants to look at his photograph again. Instead he brushes imaginary crumbs off his robes. “You chose poorly that time, Harry. But you learned soon enough.”

Harry doesn’t even know where to begin with that. Dumbledore is accusing him of bad choices? Really? His hand finds the indentation in the stone. He can use it if he wants to. For some reason this calms him down enough to go on. “After that came the Veritaserum.”

“Yes,” Dumbledore says. “Professor Snape learned plenty of your secrets. But you did not discover any of his.”

“Not until you brought in the Mirror of Erised,” Harry says grimly. “Then I found out everything.”

“Not everything,” Dumbledore corrects. “But Lily Potter stepped in from the shadows.”

Harry swallows, remembering how his mum had looked at both of them from the Mirror. She looked so sad, like she had done something wrong, and wanted Harry’s forgiveness. What did she want his forgiveness for?

“Then I learned Occlumency,” Harry says stonily. He will not talk about his mother with this man. “I threw Snape out of my head.”

“A marvelous accomplishment,” Dumbledore says warmly. As if everything was normal. “You should be proud of yourself.”

“We went to Spinners End next,” Harry grinds out, ignoring the praise. “I met the young Snape and my mum. I Obliviated them.”

“Once more, you had a difficult choice to make,” Dumbledore says. “But, like I said before, this time you chose better.” Dumbledore clears his throat. “And, I might add, you removed a memory of theirs.”

Harry doesn’t appreciate the comparison. “I had to modify their memories. I had to! It was the right thing to do. It was nothing like what you did to me!”

“I am merely pointing out a similarity,” Dumbledore says calmly. “Please continue.”

“I found out about Snape’s childhood,” Harry says bitterly, unable to keep the emotion out of his voice. “I think that was the last straw for him. He started to go crazy in that Room. And you wouldn’t let him out. Even though he was humiliating himself. You wouldn’t let him out. You wouldn’t help him!”

“Yes,” Dumbledore says, his voice brittle. “He still was keeping something from you. If he had only taken the Veritaserum, he might have spared himself that.”

“YOU MIGHT HAVE SPARED HIM FROM IT!” Harry roars. He jumps to his feet, trembling from the sheer force of his emotions. “BUT YOU DIDN’T!”

“No,” Dumbledore says quietly. “I didn’t spare anyone, did I? I only did that once, you know. And it didn’t help anything.”

This response is so wholly unsatisfactory that Harry can only stare at him.

“And besides,” Dumbledore continues, “Professor Snape still kept something from you. So of course I could not let him out.”

“Why? Why was that so bloody important?”

“The secrets were like poison with you two,” Dumbledore says, more confident than he has been all morning. “They stood in the way of anything ever being mended. You had to know, and he had to be the one to tell you.”

“And you had to be the one to orchestrate it,” Harry says furiously.

“Yes,” Dumbledore readily agrees. “Now, please continue. What happened next?”

“Like you don’t know,” Harry growls. He begins to pace in front of the fireplace. “The Sorting Hat came and I found the Tunnel of Gryffindor. Snape told me about how he got my parents killed and about the bloody prophecy. He told me just like you wanted him to, alright? And then I left.”

“But you came back,” Dumbledore says warmly, “as I realized you would. I knew you would go back for him, Harry! I knew you would make the right choice!”

Harry stops pacing. He stands in front of the snapping fireplace, staring at the flames until his vision begins to blur. “It wasn’t like that. I only went back because of the Pensieve. I hated you more than him at that moment. That’s all.”

“And saving his life?” Dumbledore asks. “You chose to Heal him simply because you hated me more? You could have left him to die, you know. He did as much to you.”

“There was no choice involved,” Harry says angrily. “Some things aren’t optional, Professor!”

Dumbledore says nothing. The silence fills the room.

“That’s the end of my story,” Harry says roughly. “You know what happened next.”

“It is a dreadful tale,” Dumbledore says, stirred out of his reverie. He actually sounds sympathetic. “But also an important one.”

““Why?” Harry demands. “Why is it so important to you? What did the Room have to do with preparing me for the war? It didn’t teach me how to kill Voldemort.”

“The Room taught you to make the right choice instead of the easy one.”

“The Room didn’t teach me anything!” Harry snarls. “And I think I knew right from wrong before you stuffed me in there!”

“I saw how the Room changed you,” Dumbledore says quietly. Harry stands there stiffly. He cannot deny this, and Dumbledore knows it.

“Choices are dire in times of war,” Harry mutters. He can’t think of anything else to say.

“Yes,” Dumbledore agrees. “And you learned how to make the right choice, Harry.” He pierces Harry with his blue eyes. “You chose to save Professor Snape after he had hurt you dreadfully. You chose to Obliviate your mother even though you knew how much pain it would cause you. After that first vindictive mistake with Professor Snape, when you chose to punish him, you chose unselfishly time and again. I can ask no more of the man who will defeat Voldemort.”

“I don’t understand you,” Harry says, his voice hitching in his throat. He never understands this man. “How will being unselfish help me to kill him?”

“That will become clear when the time is right,” Dumbledore says cryptically. “But you will be victorious, my child. Of that I have no doubt.”

Harry looks helplessly at Dumbledore. “Don’t call me that.”

Dumbledore flinches. Then he clears his throat. “I do apologize. How presumptuous of me.”

All of a sudden Harry feels undone. He leans against the fireplace, something dark and deep curdling inside of him. Dumbledore raises his finger, crooking it toward Harry. “Now it is my turn to tell you a story. Please, Harry. Join me.”

Harry walks a few feet forward, limbs stiff, and then sinks to the ground. He can go no further. He sits cross-legged on the shaggy rug, head bowed, almost at the man’s feet. The fire rages behind him.

“You must succeed where I have failed,” Dumbledore says softly from somewhere above him. Then he stops and begins again. “My story, like yours, has a villain. But mine lacks a hero. I never killed my dark wizard, Harry. I never killed Grindelwald.”

Harry looks up at Dumbledore. The movement costs him something. “Grindelwald? The man on the Chocolate Frog card? It said you defeated him.”

“Oh, I defeated him,” Dumbledore says heavily, “after a fashion. But I did not kill him. I locked him up in a tower, and by doing so, I left the possibility of his return open. He lives there still.”

“Locking people up doesn’t work. Ever.”

Dumbledore sighs. “I could not bear to kill him.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Harry says, anger nudging at him once more. “I didn’t want to let Snape die.”

“You gave a flawed man another chance,” Dumbledore corrects. “I let a monster live because of my own selfishness. I was not like you, Harry. I had not learned to make the right choice instead of the easy one. And so I spared him, and the world is a worse place because of it.”

“Do you want me to kill Grindelwald as well?” Harry asks, dread lining his insides. “Is that what this is about?”

Dumbledore looks torn between laughter and something else. “No, Harry. Age has not cured me of that particular foolishness. I would ask that you refrain from killing Grindelwald.”

“Good,” Harry mumbles, his head sagging back to his chest.

“I am a foolish man, you know,” Dumbledore says next. “I have let selfishness and fear cripple my life. That cannot befall you. I know the first will not happen. But as for the second—”

“What are you scared of?” Harry interrupts in disbelief. “You’re Dumbledore!”

Dumbledore hesitates. Then, murmuring to himself, he reaches into his robes. Harry tenses, putting his hand on the stone again, but Dumbledore merely brings out the photograph he’d been looking at earlier. “I’m afraid of her.”

Harry reaches up and takes the offered photo. A small girl with light blue eyes looks curiously back at him.

“She’s a child,” Harry says slowly. “Why are you scared of a child?”

“She was my little sister,” Dumbledore says quietly, his voice tripping over the last word, as though unaccustomed to it. “I loved her more than life itself. She was like my own child.” He takes another deep breath. “I was supposed to protect her. She died. It was my fault.”

Harry think of Cedric and his heart bangs painfully in his chest.

“I lost everything when I lost Ariana,” Dumbledore continues. “And I have never trusted myself with anyone of importance since.”

Harry stares at the little girl. Her eyes are watery. Her face looks piggy. He hates her.

“I am not so different from Professor Snape,” Dumbledore whispers.

“What do you mean?” Harry asks warily.

“Our stories share many elements,” Dumbledore explains. “Colossal lapses in judgment. Love of someone who did not return the favor. Loss. And, Harry, we both gave up. We never tried again. I have the greatest of empathy for Professor Snape.”

“He thinks you don’t care about him,” Harry says slowly.

“He thinks he will always be an afterthought to me,” Dumbledore corrects. “But when I look at him, I see myself. I see a man who will not be missed by anyone when he dies. I can hardly bear to meet his eyes.”

“But you’ll never tell him that, will you?”

Dumbledore looks away, his eyes flashing with regret. “I doubt it. I cannot believe I am even telling you.”

“Why are you telling me?” Harry asks awkwardly.

“I wish I had tried again,” Dumbledore says soberly. “You have no idea how much. And I wouldn’t dare to presume for Professor Snape, but— solitude is never anyone’s first choice.”

A strange thought is beginning to creep into Harry’s mid. It is so terrifying that he can barely articulate his question. “Are you saying—you put us in the Room—because you wanted Snape to try again?”

“When you were in the Room—and you said you wanted someone to depend on—well—everything changed.” Dumbledore says slowly. “Everything was clarified. I want both of you to try again. I think you’ve given up on the idea of a family as well, Harry.”

“Ron and Hermione are my family,” Harry says stiffly. “And Sirius. I don’t need anything more. I certainly don’t need a father. My father is dead.” After a pause, his heart twisting inside of him, he adds, “And if I did give up on a family, it’s your fault. You left me with the Muggles.”

“You terrified me,” Dumbledore says huskily. “You must understand that, Harry. If I took you in—if I lost you like I lost Ariana—I could not try again. I could not risk it.”

Harry’s insides freeze. His heart is a block of ice. He hopes it stays that way.

“That is why I must beg your pardon,” Dumbledore quietly continues. “I used blood ward magic as an excuse and I left you with those Muggles. How can you ever forgive me?”

“I’ve wondered ever since I met you,” Harry says, unable to keep the accusation out of his voice. He cannot believe that they are actually talking about this. “Every time I see you—I ask myself why you didn’t take me in. Every single time, Dumbledore! But I never thought it was your fault you left me there. I thought it was mine!”

“I know,” Dumbledore says heavily. “And that is why I can never forgive myself.”

“You didn’t help me. You could have and you didn’t. You didn’t help me.”

“I know,” Dumbledore whispers. “You have every right to judge me. I know they hurt you. But they did not kill you. And so I have not failed you in the same way I failed my sister.” Dumbledore pauses. “Or so I tell myself at night.”

“I’ll never forgive you,” Harry says coldly. “Not ever.”

“Harry,” Dumbledore says weakly. “Please. Try again. Do not give up on a family because of me.”

“You flatter yourself,” Harry says roughly. He awkwardly gets to his feet and holds out the photograph of Dumbledore’s sister. “Take it.”

Dumbledore’s movements are much slower than usual. His hands are shaking.

“TAKE IT!” Harry screams. He leans over Dumbledore, shoving the photograph in his face. “You chose her over me, alright? So TAKE IT!”

Dumbledore winces, but still, he cannot bring himself to take the picture back. He seems frightened by it now.

“Fine,” Harry snarls. He takes out his wand. “Incendio.”

And once more Harry watches Dumbledore’s papers go up in flames. Fawkes coos in recognition and flies down to the pile of ashes. She begins to sift through the grit, almost as though she is looking for something.

“Why did you do that?” Dumbledore asks in a very low voice. “That was my favorite picture of her. That was my only picture of her.”

“YOU LEFT ME WITH THE DURSLEYS!” Harry cries with the voice of a much younger child. He hurls spell after spell at the pile of ashes, narrowly missing Fawkes, until there is nothing left but a fine layer of soot. Dumbledore flinches with every incantation.

“You know what?” Harry says, his breath ragged. “I’m sick of being blameless.”

“Ariana used to sit at my feet,” Dumbledore whispers. “I used to give her lemon drops and tell her stories.”

Harry jerks his wand and Vanishes the ashes.

Fawkes squawks at the sudden loss. She begins to cry, almost as though her mate has been taken from her. The tears drop to the floor, but there is nothing for them to heal.